


Quiet

by MoTexas55 (CupNoodles55)



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012)
Genre: Existential Crisis, Family Feels, Father-Son Moment, Gen, He's a good papa, Hurt/Comfort, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Splinter is doing his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CupNoodles55/pseuds/MoTexas55
Summary: When Splinter's most reserved son throws an unexpected tantrum, he finds himself at a loss for words.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the thing, you guys. I wrote several TMNT stories across the years, and going back to look at them all anew, and share them with more people who haven't read them before, has been so much fun and borderline nostalgic for me. For this one specifically, I just have to say, I think it's my favorite, out of all the ones I've written - even the multi-chapter, novel-length ones that I spent years on. I'm just kind of proud of it, ya know? It's my baby. And I certainly hope you like it too.
> 
> That is all.

Quiet.

So rare, so precious, so sweet on the palate, like a drop of spring water rolling along the tip of a dry tongue. Sometimes he craved it so badly that it made his brain throb. He was not normally one to be so easily irritated, but most times he allowed himself a little slack when he was pushed past his level of tolerance. Raising four boys, while it was a blessing he'd never trade, at times could be the most exhausting, stressful, patience-thinning challenge that fate had ever tested him with. He loved them of course, more than he could ever put into words.

But they fought. So. Much.

Maybe he was a little at fault. After all, he had been the brilliant mind behind deciding to mold them into little ninjas. He might as well have told them directly that they were free to practice their katas on one another. It didn't matter if he looked them dead in the eye before every training session to remind them that ninjutsu stayed in the dojo. They would simply nod and find some other way to knock each other to the floor. And if he told them _all_ forms of fighting were to stay in the dojo, well then they would simply take their arguments _to_ the dojo.

He admired their minds sometimes. They were definitely clever little things. They seemed to find loopholes in everything:

"But Sensei, you didn't say I couldn't use the _practice_ weapons on Mikey."

"But Sensei, you said don't take _Donnie's_ stuff."

"But Sensei, you told me to go get Leo. You didn't say _how._ "

"But Sensei, you said to leave _Raph_ alone. You didn't say I couldn't play with Spike."

Usually, he twisted his face and stared them down for a while when they made comments like this, and he knew from the way they tended to shrink slightly into their shells that they understood what he meant when he said, "don't use weapons on your brothers." They always knew. And after a little chastising, he was normally convinced that he and his sons had an understanding about whatever specifically detailed rule he'd just put in place. That didn't necessarily stop them from breaking rules he hadn't painstakingly laid out for them yet. And this time, he had decided he would try his hand at grounding them.

Of course, there wasn't all that much that a "grounding" could entail with them: no TV, no video games, stay in your room until I say you can come out. But for ten-year-old mutant turtles that spent every waking moment of their lives trapped down in the sewers anyway, any diminish in what little freedom they had could be devastating.

True, he felt a little bad for Michelangelo and Raphael, especially when his youngest started screaming when the television was taken from his room. But he reminded himself that firmness was necessary. The five of them would be stuck in this boat for a very, very long time, and they only had each other for support. Any rift between them was potentially hazardous for the well-being of his family. As long as they could get along with each other, they would be okay.

And for this reason, in these instances, he was particularly grateful for his other two sons.

True, Leonardo and Raphael did a lot more fighting than Raphael did with Michelangelo sometimes, but the eldest was also very determined to act the role of the older brother and often did his best to keep the peace between his siblings, or else he would run to get Splinter if something came up.

Donatello simply didn't make a fuss. Ordinarily, he was a very docile child, who gave the old rat little to no trouble. Not to say his experiments didn't make a ruckus every now and then, or that he never got into an argument with his brothers. He was still only a child. But generally speaking, Donatello was quiet, and often embodied that precious drop of spring water that Splinter longed for.

So on days such as these, when his two most impulsive children were doing time in their rooms, and Leonardo and Donatello were left to pass the day however they pleased … it was quiet.

And Splinter reveled in it. All he had to do was ask Leonardo to check up on his brothers every hour or so, and the little blue-banded turtle was only too happy to oblige, leaving the exhausted old rat an entire day of peace to meditate and exercise his ninjustu on a level that did not require simplicity. Maybe he'd even sit down to read a book. That was an activity he hadn't taken advantage of in a while.

Of course, he wasn't normally one for reading. He might have looked through an anthology or a historical text every once in a while. But it was Tang Shen who had been the most interested in books, and every page he owned now was left over from what had once been hers. Sometimes new texts or novels would slide their way into the sewers or turn up in decent condition when he made his rounds at the junkyard, but all of those he reserved for his particularly knowledge-hungry son. But seeing as today was such a tranquil gift, he decided it might be fun to riffle through _History of Renaissance Art_ again. It might even amuse him. After all, he hadn't looked at it since he'd decided what he wanted to name his sons.

He pulled in a breath and relaxed himself in _hira no kamae_.

He felt good — rejuvenated. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd practiced katas for himself, rather than as a demonstration. His blood was flowing. His mind was open. He was alert, at peace, and ready to read that book.

And then the moment died the very second that a crash ensued somewhere outside of the dojo.

It made his fur stand up at first, but then he simply closed his eyes with a long sigh.

Maybe a whole day was asking too much of them. They were children. It was to be expected. He just had to accept that quiet was a gem he could only ever have a glimpse of. One day — eventually — they'd be old enough for him to trust them alone, and maybe then … maybe then …

"Sensei!"

Splinter exhaled again as his eldest poked his head into the dojo, his eyes wide.

"I thought I told your brothers to stay in their rooms."

Leonardo pursed his lips, shrinking away slightly, as though he was nervous to give a report.

That was different.

"It's not them, Sensei."

Splinter raised a brow as he looked over at Leonardo. The little turtle was sporting a troubled bend to his brow and a slant to his mouth. It was the very visage of discomfort.

Splinter reached over for his staff and made his way across the room, following Leonardo when he turned and scampered hurriedly toward his brother's lab.

"I don't know what's wrong with him," the little turtle said as he hurried around the pit. "I tried to ask him, but I don't think he noticed."

He stopped at the lab door and hesitated, looking back over his shoulder toward Splinter, who walked up behind him, mimicking his furrowed expression.

For a moment, they simply stood there listening to the series of crashes and angry screams that threatened to bust the door clean off its frame.

Splinter reached for the handle, but for one brief moment was afraid.

The voice was Donatello's, yes, but the rage behind it was unrecognizable. It didn't sound like his son — not the meek and timid little Donnie who loved to spend his time curled up in a corner with a book or tinkering with inventions for hours on end.

The old rat prepared himself with a full breath and slid the door open only wide enough to poke his nose into the lab.

A glass beaker flew across the room and shattered against the door just inches from where Splinter and his eldest son stood.

Leonardo jumped back and pressed himself close to his sensei, latching onto Splinter's hand when the rat father automatically placed his paw protectively over Leonardo's plastron.

They simultaneously inched forward again, peeking further into the room to gaze in awe at the fit that was unfolding before them.

There was already a nice thin layer of broken glass glittering on the floor, along with torn papers and scattered tools, and the many pieces belonging to a mechanical contraption Splinter couldn't possibly have named. But, however flustered Donatello might have become once upon a time for seeing his lab in disarray, he took no care in it now, and seemed only determined to make a bigger mess of it.

He snatched up a wooden stool by one of its legs and slammed it against the cement floor repeatedly. The seat split down the middle, one half flying across the room, the other splintering into a pile of sticks at the little turtle's feet. He soon held nothing more than a leg in his hand that he turned to chuck at one of the pools of algae across the room.

As soon as it left his fingers, he whirled back around and shoved all of his weight against his lab table, grunting and stomping his feet with the effort it took to flip it on its side with a jarring clatter.

He stood huffing for a moment, glaring as though he was angry at it for still having turned over so easily. Tear tracks streaked his grimy cheeks, which seemed to have already been smeared with black smudges of grease. His fists clenched and shook by his sides. And for a moment of hesitation, he simply trembled.

But it didn't seem to take long before he decided he was still unsatisfied with the mess he'd made and swooped up a hammer that was lying on the floor. He took it in both fists, holding it up over his shoulder like a bat and marched toward the brand new computer that Splinter knew for a fact his son had only just finished putting together two days ago, after having worked on it for weeks.

This was when the rat decided he'd had enough.

Unwilling to allow his son to create anymore regrets for himself, Splinter pushed his way into the lab, leaving Leonardo at the door.

The enraged turtle was already smashing the head of the hammer down onto the keyboard, sending little squares of plastic flying everywhere.

"Donatello! _Yamate!_ That is enough!"

He snatched his son's wrist before he could swing the hammer at the screen of the monitor.

"No, no!" Donatello shrieked. He writhed against Splinter, trying to yank his hammer back when his father took hold of it.

Donatello's grip was surprisingly desperate, and Splinter struggled to rip the tool out of the child's hand. Eventually, however, he succeeded, and threw it immediately to the side.

Donatello erupted. Splinter grimaced as his son flailed his arms and started throwing weak, unfocused punches at his stomach and stomped his feet with urgency. The half screaming, half sobbing cries that came out of his little chest put a knot in Splinter's throat.

The rat lowered himself to his knees, for a moment struggling to get his son to be still, speaking to him in Japanese both as soothingly and firmly as he could manage.

" _Ochitsuite kudasai_. _Douka saremashita ka?_ Donatello … please."

After a passing moment of no success, the only thing Splinter could do was shush him, as though the noise might calm him more than words. Slightly at a loss, Splinter finally just grabbed his son by the shoulders and yanked him into his chest. He folded his arms around the little turtle's shell, pinning his elbows to his sides, and resisted as Donatello struggled to break free.

The screaming stopped first, tapered off into very young, very vulnerable crying. And then he finally stilled and buried his face in his father's shoulder. His fingers pulled on bunches of Splinter's robe and shook against his sides. His entire shell trembled.

Splinter, with a fixed crease on his brow, shifted his weight and pulled his son down into his lap, stroking the back of his head with his thumb as he continued to shush him.

At ten years old, Donatello was smaller than his older brothers, but still big enough that it had been quite a while since the great sensei had rocked the young turtle in his arms. He often didn't need to. At least not for anyone but Mikey, normally, who still had a very toddler-like disposition sometimes. So it was shocking, and at first felt a little odd — mostly because Splinter wasn't sure what else to do. He really couldn't recall a time when Donatello had acted out like this before.

"Shhh shh … It is alright," he soothed, staring at the wall in front of him.

It took a while, but Donatello's sobs tapered down to whimpers, which eventually tapered down to hiccups.

He quieted himself, but Splinter elected to wait just a little bit longer before speaking.

He continued to rock and was overcome by a small wave of nostalgia.

It was bittersweet. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to hold one of his children so securely against his chest, to feel their little body breathe and hold him back, as though he was something that they, not only needed, but _wanted_ there with them.

"What is troubling you, Donatello?" he asked. "What happened?"

The turtle shook his head and nuzzled his face into his father's neck after rubbing his eyes.

"Hm?" Splinter patted his shell. "What is it, my son?"

"I don't —" Hiccup. "I don't understand," he whispered, his tone so lost and confused that it added a weight to Splinter's chest.

"What is it that you do not understand, _musuko_?"

"I don't get the point."

"The point of what?"

"Why we're here."

Splinter's brow furrowed, his gaze steady on that same wall. He pondered this for a second, as though a moment of silence might make his son's comment clear. It did not.

He pulled back, urging Donatello to face him, and wiped some of the tears from his cheeks. "I am not sure I understand."

Fresh tears welled up in the little turtle's eyes, and Splinter suddenly felt quite horrible for not getting it — as though his lack of comprehension was something that he could change with willingness.

"Why are we here, Sensei? What's the point? The humans aren't going to accept anything we do for them. They won't like us. They don't even know we exist. So why do we have to k-keep going?"

The tears broke free of the young turtle's troubled brown eyes and crawled down his cheeks. Splinter stared.

"I l-like to invent stuff, but … th-there's no point in trying to make it all work if—if …" Donatello grimaced, and Splinter found himself shaking his head.

He wasn't sure if he was holding his breath or if his heart was beating too hard to compensate his lungs. He was pretty sure he'd never been more horrified in his life. And all he could do was watch his ten-year-old son cry and try to explain himself through heavy gasps.

"Everything I make is u-u … it's u-useless because n-nobody even knows about it. And I k-keep trying to get it to work but it's so … it's so _hard_. And I keep messing it up. And … And … And I don't think I sh-should keep trying if it doesn't m-m-matter."

Splinter's throat closed. "Donatello …"

"I—just—wanna be—normal," Donnie sobbed.

Splinter immediately folded his son back in his embrace, and pressed his cheek against the top of his head.

"Why can't we be normal?"

Splinter shook his head … and then shook it again. Never in his life had he been completely at a loss for words in front of one of his sons. Donatello asked a lot of questions, many of which stunned the old rat sometimes, but he usually had a way to respond, an answer. But now …

He finally turned his eyes away from that wall and looked over his shoulder.

Leonardo was still standing in the doorway, his bright blue eyes wide, misty, and frightened. Peeking over his shoulders were the familiar red and orange-stripped faces of his younger brothers, both just as mystified.

Splinter knew they'd heard. But he had to pray for a moment that they weren't so heavily plagued by the same confusion. He took the minutest amount of solace in remembering that they did not think the way that their brother did. Their minds, however clever, were not nearly as complex as Donatello's most times. They were still just children. So he kept his concern on the son in his arms and silently motioned for the other three to leave.

Leonardo's eyes widened, but he nodded faintly and muttered over his shoulder to his brothers, who exchanged glances with him, and then took a step back. The eldest threw one last glance at his sensei before quietly sliding the door shut.

"Donatello," Splinter murmured, turning back to his purple-banded son.

He pulled him away from his chest again and resumed trying to wipe his tears away, though now they had a constant flow, and Donatello was ignoring them, squinting past them at his father, his eyes begging for an answer.

Splinter tried to swallow … It didn't work very well.

"S—" He cleared his throat. "Sometimes … fate deals us a hand that we must learn to accept, and …" His sentence fell away as he met his son's gaze and saw the complete lack of naivety that lay inside those brown irises.

His heart fell into his stomach, a sensation he had always associated with undeniable failure.

He was a terrible father. He had no answers. His ten-year-old son could think circles around him and leave him dumbfounded with just a handful of words. He had every right in the world to throw fits and scream and cry and feel the anguish that he felt. It was not fair for him. It was not fair for his brothers. And Splinter knew he could do nothing about that. All he had was what he carried with him. He only had arms. He only had a beating heart. He only had ears and a mouth and lungs. And what could he do with that? What could he say to them? What words were there to explain _why_?

He shook his head, this time apologetically.

"I don't know," he said. "I do not know, Donatello. I am sorry."

Donatello's bottom lip trembled, and his head dropped, eyes staring down into his lap with a watery gaze.

Terrible father.

Splinter grimaced and gingerly reached up to tilt his son's face back up. " _Musuko_ … You will learn very quickly that sometimes some questions simply have no answers. And when that happens, all we can really do is accept that. It is okay. And it is definitely okay to feel the way that you feel. I feel this way myself sometimes. But then I remember that I hold a very valued purpose on this earth, and that is to be a caretaker for you and your brothers — to be a father." He could feel his throat tightening again and strained not to let it weaken his words.

"You," he said, firmly gripping his son's shoulders, "are _very_ useful, Donatello. And what you do makes all the difference. Do you realize without you we may not have clean running water, or working electricity? And you help me make sure everyone stays healthy, that none of us get sick. And you're inventions … they are extraordinary. I have never met anyone with a mind like yours. It amazes me — always. And I am so proud of you."

He attempted an encouraging smile, but Donatello simply stared back with a doubtful crease to his brow that said he wasn't willing to accept such a vague, basic, that's-what-fathers-are-supposed-to-say answer.

Splinter pursed his lips. "You are very young, my son. You must remember that. Everyone has a contribution for the world, and it often takes a very long time for people to figure out what that is, nearly their entire lives most times. Some of them never know. I did not understand what my contribution would be, until I was blessed with you and your brothers. It takes time, my son. And you have a lot of it. Our … condition is special, and I think that will make our purpose more meaningful and unique than any ordinary human being out there."

He tried the smile again, wiping away another tear. Donatello still seemed fairly unconvinced, but his expression was level at least. His eyes turned away and he gazed off to the side in a contemplative silence.

Splinter wished he could place a hand on his son's face and transfer him instant happiness. He wished there _were_ answers. He wished a hug and a smile could be enough.

"I destroyed my lab," Donatello mumbled.

Splinter's gaze roamed around the mess they sat in the center of.

Donatello drew in a breath and let it tumble out of his nose, dropping his shoulders with it. Splinter passed a hand over the crown of his head.

"Would you like me to help you fix it back up?"

The turtle's head shook. "No," he said, his voice barely audible.

Splinter tried not to frown. "You are sure?"

"Yes … I just want to be alone."

The old rat could swear that sound of ripping flesh was his heart tearing down the middle. He forced a protest down past the knot in his throat and brushed a hand over Donatello's head again. "Okay," he said, though he wasn't sure if his son heard.

He pulled Donatello back into his chest and screwed up his face against a sheet of hurt when his son's arms hung heavily by his sides and made no effort to hold him back.

"I am sorry I could not help you, my son."

Donatello's head shook. "It's okay," he mumbled.

Splinter gritted his back teeth and finally forced himself to release him. While such a gift of intellectual genius had already proven to hold many advantages, Splinter now feared that it would also become his son's most troubling obstacle. But as he stood, he realized just how useless he was. There was nothing he could do. How could he save Donatello from himself without changing who Donatello was?

Defeated, Splinter turned away from the child and let himself out of the lab, but just before he closed the door, he glanced back across the room where Donnie still knelt and paid no mind to his father's presence anymore. Instead, he stared gravely at the broken glass and shreds of paper and metals littering his workspace.

After a moment, he pushed himself up to his feet and slowly turned his lab table back onto its legs, then did nothing more than trace circles on the table top with his finger, his brown eyes no longer the bright, curious amber Splinter was used to.

The rat closed the door quietly and leaned his back against it. Eyes closed, his stomach churned until he took a breath and opened them again to find his other three sons huddled together at the edge of the pit, staring directly at him.

Splinter released a silent sigh and pasted a false smile to his lips.

* * *

**_Five Years Later_ **

He gazed upon his family in fondness, marveling at the fact that it had grown in only a few months in ways he'd never thought possible.

The young teenagers were finally beginning to wind down from their dance party. The old rat did not quite understand how they achieved this. How could one have so much energy that they swing their body in a joyous rhythm for _hours_ , after having spent an entire day retaliating against an alien invasion?

One day, Splinter thought, when they were as old as him, they'd realize quiet and rest were glorious things. For now, their bodies had no limit.

He smiled as April's father attempted to join the fun and began to disco in a way that really revealed his own age. Splinter's sons laughed, Michelangelo running up to join the red-bearded man, of course. April, though she smiled, hid her reddened face in her hands, peeking through her fingers and allowing giggles to escape her.

"You were wrong."

Splinter blinked with a twitch of his ear and looked down to his left where he had not noticed Donatello come up beside him.

He really must have been getting old. Donatello's sudden appearance should not have surprised him so much. Or maybe it was a sign of growth. He remembered a time when Donatello's approach had been quite clumsy and made it hard for him in stealth training, particularly when his legs and feet began to grow at a faster rate than he was prepared. And now, his movements hardly made a whisper of sound when he was focused.

"I was wrong?" Splinter repeated, raising a brow. "About what?"

"It was a long time ago," the young turtle said, looking out at his brothers and friends. "I asked you what we were doing here, what our purpose was, and you couldn't answer. You apologized for not being able to help … Do you remember that?"

Splinter nodded once. "It was not a moment I could easily forget. It is not every day that I find myself completely useless to my children."

"But you weren't." Donatello looked up at his father again, his eyes browner, softer, and far more intelligent than Splinter had ever thought could be possible. "You had already helped me."

"Oh? How so?"

Donatello stared at his father with an unwavering gaze. "By choosing me … at the pet store."

Splinter's whiskers twitched. It was the second time in his life he found himself completely speechless. He stared.

"We wouldn't have had a purpose at all," Donatello continued, looking away again, his eyes floating over to the young, red-haired girl across the room. "If we'd been normal turtles our whole lives." He shrugged. "Maybe we could've kept some child company, lived complacently in a tank, eating leaves and turtle feed until we died — without leaving any significant impact on the world … But that didn't happen, because you picked us."

The prickle of a sting attacked the corners of Splinter's eyes, as though someone was blowing a fan directly at his face. He ignored, this time, the way his throat swelled up, and instead smiled affectionately at the side of his son's face.

Silently, he lifted his arm and folded his growing child into his embrace. Donatello's lean arms held him back this time, and Splinter kissed the top of his head.

"Group hug!"

They were nearly knocked off balance as Michelangelo threw himself against Donatello's shell, squeezing his brother between him and Splinter as his hands reached around to grip the sides of his father's robe. Leonardo and Raphael followed suit, closing them in on either side. Raphael tucked his head beneath Splinter's right arm, cheek nuzzled against his ribs. Leonardo rested his temple on his sensei's left shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around Splinter's back as his hand rested on top of his brothers'.

All four of Splinter's sons lost themselves in a fit of giggles, and their father smiled.

Quiet was a blessing, but the familiar sounds of his sons' voices, knowing that they were present and an unending part of his life, produced in Splinter a gratitude he would never trade.

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of several pieces I wrote for the TMNT fandom across the years that the 2k12 series was airing. I don't know how long it's going to take me, but I will be posting them all on AO3 in somewhat reverse order of how I posted them on FanFiction.net, I think. We'll see how it goes, but that's seven done.


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